


Falling Leaves

by MissSansaStone



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-03 01:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16316390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSansaStone/pseuds/MissSansaStone
Summary: Dragons stir in the East. In the south, King's Landing is held by a boy king in a bed of roses. A threat rises to the North. When you play the Game of Thrones, you win, or you die.This is basically my attempt to wrap up ASoIaF, how I would like it to pan out! This story picks up at the end of A Dance with Dragons, and is primarily based on A Song of Ice and Fire novels, rather than The Game of Thrones TV show.





	1. Alayne

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my very first fic, and this is a bit of an undertaking. I'm going to do my best to wrap up the beast that is ASoIaF! So join me for the whirlwind ride that is GoT! 
> 
> Any comments and constructive feedback would be great! Thank you so much for reading.   
> P.S. This work is un-beta'd, so apologies for any spelling/grammatical errors!
> 
> Disclaimer; all of the characters and content this work is based upon does not belong to me and is the work of GRR Martin, I make no money from this work.

Sunlight streamed through the open window, dust motes visible in the early morning sunlight. Alayne stretched lazily, and slipped out from her furs, padding across her bedchamber in her bare feet. She stepped out onto her balcony, skin prickling with gooseflesh as a fresh gust of wind picked up, tangling her chestnut locks about her face. The Vale stretched out around her, fields like patchwork. It was early autumn, and the harvest would be beginning in the farms and villages within the Vale. The lords and ladies of the court had descended from the Eyrie weeks ago and taken up residence at the Gates of the Moon, in the shadow of the Eyrie. While it was still quite warm, the world in autumns embrace, above the Eyrie was entrapped by snow, and would be until late Spring.

The scent and sounds of the kitchen drifted to her on the breeze, the bread fresh from the ovens, and the smell of meats frying. Today was an important day for her father, the Vale lords were expected to arrive later this morning for the Harvest Feast, and Sweetrobins tourney.

Alayne turned and drifted to her wardrobe to dress. Her hands passed over fine silks, cloth of gold and velvets. She was the natural daughter of the Lord Protector, and as such must remember not to dress above her station. This automatically discounted the finer fabrics, and also the sky-blue and cream of the Arryns, the blue and red of the Tullys, and the white and grey of the Starks. Alayne hummed quietly to herself as her gaze landed on a forest-green gown, made of a sensible linen. Leaves picked out in a bronze thread fell down the bodice and skirt. She nodded to herself, a gown rich enough for the occasion, but not presuming to dress too finely.

She washed her face with the rosewater in the basin in her dressing area, and dressed herself smoothly, being accustomed to a lack of a lady’s maid. She had been provided with a sort-of lady’s maid, Maddy, who was really a scullery maid; lacking any formal training on the skills required to attend a young lady of noble birth, and on a day like today would no doubt be busy making last minute preparations for the expected parties. Alayne made do herself and seated herself in front of her mirror to brush out her hair. She frowned at her reflection, on close inspection she could already detect her tell-tale auburn roots growing out, and she was nearly out of the brown dye that her late aunt had provided.

Alayne braided her hair in a typical southron style, thinking wishfully of the northern styles of her roots. Of loosely bound hair, streaming around her as she spun and laughed in her Robbs arms- “ _No_.” Alayne reminded herself firmly, she was a bastard, who had no brothers and had never been to the North.

Shaking herself, she slipped a pair of sensible leather slippers onto her feet, she didn’t bother with jewellery, what she owned was too fine for a day like today. She grabbed a cloak, brown-red like the colour of leaves in the autumn, clasping it about her shoulders. She moved to the door, carefully unlocking it and slipping the key into a concealed pocket in the skirts of her dress. She never forgot to lock the door anymore, otherwise Sweetrobin would come searching for her during the night. Alayne wouldn’t have minded, only he tended to lash out and wet the bed during his episodes. Besides, it was better this way, he needed to learn how to cope without his mother. This shaking boy would one day by Lord of the Vale, Warden of the East.

Alayne quickly made her way down to the courtyard and found it a flurry of activity. Stable boys lounged against the stable wall, awaiting the arrival of Lady Waynwood and her party, while men-at-arms and watchmen lounged about the courtyard. Some sparring and drilling, others crouched over crates playing and dice. The Lords Redfort and Hunter had arrived the previous day along with several other minor houses, and Lord Yohn Royce expected to arrive on the morrow. In truth, Alayne was uneasy around Lord Yohn Royce, he had been a friend of Sansa’s father, and had met Sansa on a few occasions prior. Alayne was loath to be recognised, even though her father assured her it was unlikely Lord Yohn Royce would remember her face after many years.

“Alayne! Alayne over here!” a voice cried out across the courtyard. Alayne looked up, and smiled at the owner, Myranda Royce, as she made her way towards her. _One can always hear Myranda before you see her_. Alayne thought wryly. Myranda was the eldest daughter of Lord Nestor Royce, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, an extremely buxom girl of seventeen, already widowed after her husband died while lying with her on their wedding night.

“Randa! How do you fare today?” Alayne smiled as she squeezed her friend’s hand softly.

“Well enough, better now Harry is to arrive soon.” She grinned slyly at Alayne, wiggling her eyebrows. “I don’t know how I will ever forgive you for stealing him from me!” She announced.

 _You know full well I never intended to steal anything from you_. Alayne flushed. “Oh Randa, you know it was my lord fathers doing, I knew nothing..” she trailed off.

Myranda barked with laughter and pulled Alayne by the hand towards the steps in front of the entrance hall to await the Waynwood’s arrival. “I jest Alayne, you always blush so prettily! Come, the Waynwoods are due any moment now, one of the watchmen told me he spotted their banner from the east.”

As she spoke, a horn sounded from the top of the gatehouse, and the sound of hoofbeats could be heard growing closer. Alayne swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, and smoothed her skirts with her hands. A party of twelve riders clattered into the courtyard, slowing to a halt a short way from Alayne and Myranda, who waited to greet the new arrivals. A handsome lady, perhaps in her fifties dismounted her palfrey with practiced grace. Her companions taking their lead.

Alayne stepped forward to greet the party. She bowed her head and dipped into a curtsey. Belatedly, Alayne realised she was wearing the forest green of the Waynwoods and wondered if this would play in her favour or against it. “My Lady Waynwood, it is my honour to welcome you to the Gates of the Moon. My lord father sends his regrets that he cannot be here to greet you this morning, he is discussing the storage of our harvest for the coming winter.” She spoke calmly, smiling at the older woman. Lady Waynwood had brown hair, slowly greying, and lines around her eyes that suggested that she smiled a lot. As Lady Anya Waynwood smiled back warmly, Alayne breathed a surreptitious sigh of relief.

“Lady Alayne, thank you. It is a delight to see you again under more pleasant circumstances. May I introduce you to my companions?” She gestured to a man in his early thirties, “My eldest son, Jon”. Lord Jon Waynwood, heir to Ironoaks was not a handsome man. He had a swath of thin brown hair, and a weak chin. His eyes were kind though as he took Alayne’s hand, planting a kiss to her fingers. “My Lady Alayne, a pleasure. You are more beautiful than the rumours tell.” He smiled at her, releasing her hand. Alayne flushed at his words.

“Thank you my lord, you are too kind. The pleasure is all mine.” She demurred. He then turned and repeated his greeting to Myranda, “Lady Royce, more beautiful than when last we met”. Myranda grinned in response, “You my lord, are more charming than when last we met!” Eliciting laughs from the rest of the party. Myranda winked at Alayne, a promise to tell her all of the gossip later no doubt.

“My nephew, Anders Waynwood.” Lady Waynwood gestured smiling to the man standing beside Lord Jon, another young man, with the signature brown hair all Waynwoods seemed to possess, blue eyes and a friendly smile. He too bowed his head and grasped Alayne’s hand. “A pleasure my lady, my cousin did not lie. You are truly fair indeed”.

Alayne smiled in response, “My lord you do me honour, a pleasure to meet you”. Anders then grinned quickly at Myranda, and inclined his head in her direction, “My lady.” Myranda smiled sweetly in response, eyes flashing.

As Lady Waynwood began to introduce the final member of their party, Alayne’s eyes shifted to greet him, a demure smile on her face. Her smile quickly faded and died on her face as her gaze connected with the pale blue, ice-cold glare of the final party member.

“Harrold Hardyng, my ward.”

 _Oh_. Alayne thought, as she quailed under the weight of his undisguised contempt. Alayne attempted again a smile at the young man. Handsome and sandy blonde, an aquiline nose with broad shoulders and an easy grace, attractive but for the harsh stare of his blue eyes. He stared down at Alayne. “My lord, the honour is all mine.” she attempted, smiling still. _Please, please like me! You’re to be my husband,_ father _will be so displeased with me_ _if you won’t agree_.

He snorted in response, “The honour _is_ all yours, I don’t know what I’m to do with a bastard, Littlefinger’s bastard at that.”

Alayne blinked back tears as Lady Anya and her company sucked in a shocked breath. “Harrold! How dare you disrespect a young lady as such! Especially one so lovely as the Lady Alayne” Lord Jon began to scold. Alayne drew herself up straight and looked Harry dead in the eyes.

“Thank you, my lord Jon, but no matter. This bastard must inform her lord father that you have arrived. I will leave you in the capable hands of Lady Myranda.” Alayne smiled fiercely, dipped into a curtsey and turned on her heel, disappearing into the castle to find her father. Behind her she could hear the admonishments towards Harry’s treatment of her. _Harry the Heir will change his tune before I’m finished with him._ She thought savagely, and swept up the staircase towards her fathers solar.


	2. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two here we go! Thank you so much for the supportive comments and kudos! :)

The sounds of his gasping filled the small room. He sucked in great lungful’s of air as if he had not breathed in hours. _Maybe I haven’t._ He thought as a chill came over him. He blinked blearily as he tried to make sense of the room around him. A fire flickered in the hearth, sputtering back to life as fresh logs were fed to it.

_Where am I? What happened? I was outside and.. No!_ Thoughts flew through his mind faster than an arrow. Jon jerked forward, into a seating position on the straw palette. He gasped again as he felt the phantom pains of the knives burying themselves in his back, between his ribs, into his abdomen- into his heart. He looked down, feeling for the wounds he knew should be there, but finding only tough, raised scar tissue in their place.

Jon swore, rolling off the palette with a crash as he failed to find his feet. _Impossible! I don’t understand!_

Another chill passed through him, and the door clattered open, a hulking figure standing in the threshold. John squinted upwards at the figure, from his position from the floor, and flinched as the giant man released a huge bellow.

“Lord Snow!”

Jon realised that the voice belonged to none other than the Tall-talker himself, Tormund Giantsbane. Tormund Thunderfist reached down and clasped Jon’s forearms, pulling him unsteadily to his feet.

“By the old gods, I can’t believe it. The red witch succeeded.” He said in awed wonder, staring at Jon as if he couldn’t quite believe he was there.

Jon frowned, “Succeeded in what? What happened? The men in the snow-“ Jon was interrupted by the arrival of a second figure. The red priestess Melisandre swept into the room, red robes trailing on the ground behind her, snow melting in her hair.

“The Lord of Light is not yet finished with you, Jon Snow. Did I not warn you of daggers in the dark? To keep your wolf close?” Melisandre gazed steadily into Jon’s confused face, gauging his reaction. Her red eyes flickering with the reflected firelight.

Tormund grew sombre, a strange emotion in such a loud, bawdy man. “I don’t know how, but you were dead Snow. Stabbed in the back by those turn-cloak crows.” He spat. “That great beast of yours wouldn’t let anyone near you, he had broken free of his restraints and leapt to your defence. He ripped two of the men apart before the rest backed off. We were set to burn you, so as not to see you rise again, but Melisandre ordered you brought here.” His voice grew softer, “Witchcraft and magic, I don’t know how, but you are returned to us.”

Jon’s head whirled, still unable to process the information, feeling a chill he was unable to shake. “Where is Ghost?” he asked, feeling keenly the lack of his companion’s presence. As if on cue, Ghost padded in on silent paws, settling his hulking frame next to Jon, sniffing him up and down. _Well boy? Do I smell the same? Or do I reek of death?_

Jon stuck his hand out for Ghost’s examination. Seemingly satisfied, Ghost promptly licked Jon’s hand, and dropped to his haunches next to him, lending some warmth. _Well, at least you’re sticking by me._ Ghost stared up at him solemnly as if to say, “Well of course.”

“How long was I out?” Jon asked Tormund, his gaze flicking between him and Melisandre.

Tormund sighed heavily, scratching his beard, “Not too long, maybe fourteen hours, we are approaching sunrise.”

“And the turncloaks? Did they escape or what has been done with them?” Jon decided to put the knowledge of his death and subsequent resurrection to the back of his mind temporarily. There was still much to be done.

“Six men total, more we don’t know about probably. Ghost ripped two of their throats out, but we have the Lord Pomegranate Marsh, Othell Yarwyck and a couple of other crows down in the ice cells. Stewards I think.” Tormund sneered. His opinion of men who would rather gather firewood and clean stables than fight was quite clear. “Surprised they had the stomach for it.”

Jon grimaced, the pain of their betrayal hurting as badly as any knife had. _I knew there was some discontent but to mutiny..._ One voice in his head replied to the other disdainfully, _How shocked can you be? Look what happened to the Old Bear, a more seasoned man than you, with his officers to support him. Not enough honest men to keep the thieves and rapers under control._

“What is the state of the garrison in Castle Black? What of the rest of the Night’s Watch?” he asked Tormund.

“We sent riders to the other Free Folk at Longhall, and to Dolorous Edd at Whoresbarrow. They should return with warm bodies soon enough. We gathered the remaining Night’s Watch at Castle Black in the Shieldhall under guard of my own men. There are too few you can trust Snow.”

Jon frowned. Tormund had the right of it, there _were_ too few men he trusted. Of those he trusted, was he right to trust? Look how far that had gotten him in the first place. “Tormund, pass me my blacks, I must talk to the men. Can I count on you? Can I count of the Free Folk?”

Tormund straightened proudly, “Lord Snow, you saved me and mine from an icy blue-eyed undeath. Aye, we are with you.”

Jon nodded in response. Tersely shrugging his blacks on. He reached for Longclaw, fastening it about his waist. “Let's go.”

Tormund nodded, and turned, leaving before Jon, and nodding to the two wildlings outside the door to follow. Jon trudged out of the room, still unsteady on his feet with Ghost at his side. Melisandre swept out of the room behind him, saying little, but Jon had the firm feeling that he was being examined, evaluated.

The curious group made their way across the courtyard, struggling through snow that had gathered in waist-high drifts. Jon looked at the Wall, high above him, and could see the faint glimmer of braziers still burning. He was glad to know the defences had not been abandoned in the turmoil.

“Tormund what of Wun-Wun?” Jon asked, only belatedly remembering the huge giant.

“Leathers has him, over there.” Tormund gestured to the lichyard. “Out of the way, the kneelers weren’t happy with him, but we got everything calmed down. You getting stabbed certainly distracted them.” Tormund winked, and Jon snorted in response. _No wonder they weren’t happy, Wun-Wun was using Ser Patrek as a toy, swinging him about the place._

_“_ What happened in the first place? An accident?” Jon asked, curious as to what would make the normally friendly giant lash out so angrily.

“Ah, well the pretty kneeler decided that Val was to be his and took it upon himself to fight his way past Wun-Wun when Val told him where to stick it.” Tormund smiled at the reminiscence, there was no love lost between him and the queensmen. Before Jon could respond, Tormund had pushed open the doors to the Shieldhall, and Jon could hear silence fall within, like the calm before the storm, a deep breath before the madness unfurled.

Jon stepped into the room, back straight and his face set. The Lord’s Face as his father had called it. If ever there was a time for the Lord’s Face, this was it. As Jon stepped into view of his men, and the assembled wildings, an excited buzz rippled around the room. Jon moved to the raised platform at the front of the room, and an expectant hush fell as Jon held up his hand.

“Men of the Night’s Watch, the Free Folk. Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. Now my watch has ended.” Jon paused, surveying the faces in the room. Some muttered darkly, others gaped in astonishment. “Men I trusted, my brothers, killed me last night. Mutiny, because they did not agree with the steps I have taken to ensure the future of the Watch, and of the realm. These men will pay for the crime of mutiny with their lives, as is law. My final act as the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch will be to execute the mutineers, Othell Yarwyck, Bowen March, Wick Wickwhittle, and Bass.  Edd Tollett will stand in my place until such a time Denys Mallister and Cotter Pyke organise a choosing. I am no oathbreaker. I will ride south as planned, and make Ramsay Snow pay for his threats.” At these final words, the Wildlings roared and shouted, banging tankards against the tables. The men of the Night’s Watch looked on in abject horror.

“You’re abandoning us!” One of them shouted in rage.

“No, I will return, here is where the most important battle will be fought. The Wall must be held. You all know. The Others are coming.” Jon replied calmly, seeking out the face in the crowd who had shouted at him. “The Night’s Watch will not and cannot stand alone.”

Jon turned to Tormund, “Assemble as planned, we ride tomorrow, at first light”. Tormund nodded in reply and stepped swiftly from the hall. Jon turned again to the assembly, “The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword, a belief my father held, and one I hold to as well. The mutineers shall be executed. If anyone has any other information or wishes to come forward and confess of knowledge of the plan, I will take this into account. However, if I should learn of their involvement through other means, I will not be so lenient. Return to your duties.” Jon scanned the assembled faces once more and stepped down from the dais. Leathers awaited him at the bottom of the steps. Jon clasped his forearm in greeting.

“Follow me.” Jon nodded to the exit, and Leathers followed him as he trooped outside, his bodyguards following him. While Jon still felt like a mother duck with a procession of ducklings, he now understood the need for guards with increasing chagrin.

“Wun-Wun had calmed down? You’re both okay?” Jon asked.

“Aye, eventually got him to settle, had to give him some wine to calm him down.”

Jon winced, the giant had acquired somewhat of a taste for alcohol, and he had no desire to deal with a drunk giant on top of his other problems.

“Alright then, just keep an eye on him. I don’t know who here can be trusted anymore” Jon said darkly, with a quick look to the side where some of the men had gathered to watch his progress towards the ice cells.

Jon beckoned two of his guard over, “I will pass the sentence after the men break their fast. See that you have the four turn-cloaks assembled on the dais in the training yard then.”

“Yes, Lord Commander.” His guards bowed their heads and made haste to prepare for the sentencing.

Jon turned tiredly and trudged into his chambers behind Donal Noyes forge. _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. My blade had best be sharp._


	3. Cersei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three, onwards!   
> Thank you so much for the kudos! Hope you guys enjoy :)

Coloured light fell across Cersei’s face, streaming through the stained-glass image of the Crone in the Great Sept of Baelor. The sound of undulating voices filled the air with hymns, as the High Sparrow droned on.

Cersei bowed her head, making pious noises at appropriate moments in the Septon's adoration of the Seven, and the life of one Kevan Lannister, one-time Hand of the King. The High Sparrow, in his scratchy brown rough-spun and leather sandals, looked a pauper in the grandeur of the Great Sept. _He has an unremarkable face_ thought Cersei, _Just a man, he can die like any other._

She schooled her face carefully into an expression of grief, one appropriate for a niece mourning the loss of her beloved uncle.

The High Sparrows voice rose above the hymns, “We mourn the loss of a loyal and pious man, Ser Kevan Lannister, King Regent. A man unlike others, kind and true, uncorrupted by the power he wielded.” Cersei could have sworn she saw his gaze flick towards her at these last words, and her temper flared. _Kevan was a fool, loyal not to me, nor my son. A pawn for the Tyrell roses who seek power for their own means._

The mist of incense grew thicker, as novices swung censers filled with the heady incense as they circled the funeral bier. The end of the service grew near, but Cersei was not permitted to leave immediately, the High Sparrow requesting an audience.

As she waited for the crowds to file out of the sept, eager to leave, taking their false grief with them. _They do not mourn the lions. The roses smell too sweet._ She thought bitterly, kneeling before the altar of the mother, her head bowed as if in prayer. Her septa and attendants lingered behind her, not permitted to allow her from their sight.

After an indeterminable amount of time, Cersei felt as if time moved at a snail's pace as she imitated prayer, the High Sparrow sank to his knees beside her. Cersei said nothing, waiting for him to speak, she could be patient like a lioness stalking a deer. Only he didn’t realize he was a deer, yet.

She could feel his eyes on her, and she reluctantly met his gaze, careful to keep her face neutral. “Cersei, my child. How fare you? My septa’s tell me you have adjusted well to your new lifestyle.”

Cersei could hear the thinly veiled threat, _His Septas watch my every move, seeking disloyalty. I am the Queen! They seek to remove me from my rightful place with my son. I would think he was in the pocket of the Tyrells, but the old fool is blind to any agenda but his own._ Cersei raged internally. She smiled sweetly at him.

“Oh yes, your High Holiness. I find my prayer soothing, especially since the loss of my beloved uncle. The Septa's and my handmaidens have been such a kindness”. She looked up at him demurely from under her lashes, trying once for innocence rather than seduction.

The High Sparrow studied her face carefully before replying, “Good, I am glad to hear. May the Crone light your way through your grief. Your uncle goes to join the Stranger now.”

Cersei nodded, simpering. “Yes your holiness, I am so glad that the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne are guiding the young King now that my uncle has been taking so suddenly.” _Taken suddenly, hah! More likely murdered by the Tyrells themselves as they grasp for power. Murdering Pycelle too, they knew he was always a Lannister creature. They will suffocate Tommen, turn him against me unless I act, and soon._

His High Holiness nodded, seemingly satisfied, “Yes, indeed. Wise and pious men to guide King Tommen as he learns to rule. The reason I requested your presence is that the trials have been decided upon. As you know, Her Grace, Queen Margaery wishes to be tried by the faith, and as such her trial will take place on the first of the new moon.”

“May the Seven find her innocent.” Cersei replied fiercely. _May those crotchety old men rip her lying tongue out_. She thought spitefully.

The High Septon nodded again, “Indeed, it would be a hurt to His Grace should Queen Margaery be found guilty of fornication and adultery. Your trial, Dowager Queen, will be held a sennight after Queen Margaery’s. Half a moons turn from now.”

Cersei smiled, “I am eager for my champion to prove me innocent of these heinous accusations Your Holiness.”

The High Septon looked at her steadily, “Indeed, for you know the punishment is death, for the regicide and deicide of which you are accused.”

“Filthy lies Your Holiness. My trial shall prove me innocent.” _And then I will be free to dispose of you, meddling old man._ She smiled at him.

“Very well my child. The septa will escort you back to the Red Keep presently.” He clasped her hand, and Cersei barely concealed her shudder of revulsion at the feeling of his wrinkled and calloused hands gripping hers. He rose and swept away further into the sept. Leaving behind the Most Devout, who encircled the bier, reciting hymns in honour of her uncle.

Cersei waited a moment more, under the pretence of finishing her prayer. It would not do to appear to be too eager to leave the sept. She then rose, smoothing out the skirts of her black gown. She hated the colour black, it made her appear washed out, half a corpse herself. She longed to shed her mourning but knew that it would be highly inappropriate not to observe the traditional month mourning period.

Cersei swept from the sept, head bowed in grief. Her ever-present Septas and handmaidens followed her from the sept. In the Hall of a Hundred Lamps, her champion awaited her.

Ser Robert Strong stood, at least seven feet of solid muscle, arms and legs as thick as tree trunks. He was clad head-to-toe in plate armour, embellished with mother of pearl, the white of the Kingsguard. A white woollen cloak was clasped to his shoulders, the fastenings in the shape of lions. The prancing stag of the royal sigil conspicuously absent. _My sigil, the sigil of Kings_. _The Lannisters were Kings of the Rock when the Tyrells were mere stewards._ Thought Cersei vengefully.

She smiled at him “Ser Robert, I wish to return to the keep. My son has promised to lunch with me, and it would not do be late.” _They hardly let me see him as it is, my own son!_ Her temper flared, but she bit it back, smiling as she allowed Ser Robert to escort her to her palanquin. She would have preferred a horse, so as to return to the keep faster, however, the palanquin allowed her to pull the heavy curtains closed, shielding her from the hateful gaze of the mob. Cersei was a lioness, but she was loath to admit, even to herself that her walk of repentance through the city had made her nervous to face the eyes of the smallfolk again.

She was bundled into the palanquin, pulling her furs close about her. Snow had started to fall in the city, a sennight ago, and a day did not pass where a fresh dusting coated the city. _Winter is coming._ She thought balefully, angry at herself for allowing the Stark words to cross her mind. Her palanquin trundled slowly across the city, the Septas trudging through the snow alongside her. The traffic was slow moving this morning, undoubtedly caused by the poor weather.

Her mind flicked towards Jaime, _My twin, he surely did not receive my letter, otherwise, he would have come at once. And still no word.. Surely I would know if something had befell him?_ She thought with contempt of his missing hand, and snorted to herself. _He’s as helpless as Tommen’s kittens with only that pitiful stump. So foolish and headstrong to leave without a guard. So unlike our father.. I am Tywin’s true heir. Once I remove the infestation of Sparrows from the city, I will be free to remove the Tyrells and their lackeys. So few loyal men to replace them._ She mused, _I will have to move carefully, they dig their thorns in my Tommen. At least there is no more Ser Loras for him to idolise_ , _that news smacked the smile from that smirking Tyrell whore._

The palanquin ambled to a halt, Cersei surprised to have arrived at Maegor’s Holdfast so quickly, lost in her thoughts as she had been. She pulled back the curtain and took the proffered hand. She looked up into the face of Mace Tyrell.

“Your Grace, might I escort you to your chambers? King Tommen is just practising in the yard with my son Garlan and he should be along presently. I know he does value his time with his mother.” Lord Tyrell smiled guilelessly at her.

“I would be honoured, King Regent.” Cersei nearly choked on the honorific. _That fat whale, I should be Regent! He reaches too far above his station._ Tyrell as King Regent, Lord Redwyne as Hand of the King, Garth the Gross making his way to take up the position as Master of Coin, and Lord Randyll Tarly as Master of War. Her son was being strangled by roses. The only relief was in the Snake, Lady Nymeria, that Doran Martell had sent to take his seat on the Small Council. There was no love lost between the Martells and the Tyrells, but neither were they friends of the Lannisters. Cersei hoped that the betrothal between Tystane and Myrcella was enough to sway the Dornish more firmly to her side.

Cersei took the fat flowers arm in hers and allowed him to escort her up the serpentine steps towards her chambers.  Ser Robert fell into step behind them if his presence made Lord Tyrell uneasy he did not show it. She had no desire to make pleasantries, but Lord Tyrell wished to babble on.

“Ser Kevan was a good man, capable of leadership. I fear we will not see another of his like for years to come.”

Cersei simply nodded, “Any news on who was responsible for the heinous act? I am sure the King’s Justice will not allow the culprit to walk free.”

“Ah no, not yet. But rest assured, we will not rest until the criminal has been captured and punished to the full extent of the law.” Cersei noticed sweat beading on Lord Tyrell's forehead. Strain from walking up the flight of steps? Or from concealing the truth of her uncle’s murder. The latter was more likely Cersei decided venomously. _I told you not to trust the flowers uncle._

“Lord Garlan is in the city? I was not aware. I hope you have been able to repel the Ironborn from the Shield Islands.”

“Not to worry Your Grace, my heir Willas keeps the Reach well in hand, let us worry about the security of the realm. Garlan is here to support his sister in her trial. Then he will be gone. I thought it would be appropriate in the interim to take some time to bond with King Tommen. He is still lacking a knight to squire for, something we will soon remedy.” Lord Tyrell smiled at her again.

 _I am not some fragile woman with whom you cannot discuss the affairs of the realm. I am the Queen! How dare you make decisions for my son, trying to replace your precious Loras with another for Tommen to idolise._ Cersei raged silently. “Of course my lord, how wise of you to spare me the worries of the realm. How they must weigh you down so.”

Lord Tyrell chuckled and waved her concerns away. “When one has a Small Council such as mine, well, a burden shared is no burden at all.” _It is your Small Council, for now, Tyrell. Enjoy it while you may._

They soon arrived at Cersei’s chambers, her ever-present trail of retainers and guards stepping into her solar before her, Ser Robert taking his position outside her door her pale shadow. She paused at the door as Lord Tyrell made to leave, grasping her hand and placing a wet kiss on her fingers. Cersei wrinkled her nose, before quickly concealing her emotion behind a simpering smile.

“My lord.” She smiled at him.          

“Until the morrow, Queen Mother.”

The title felt like a barb, meant to rankle her at the reminder that she was nothing more than a broodmare, fit for whelping Kings. Her temper flashed and she snatched her hand back, too suddenly perhaps, as Lord Tyrell then frowned before turning and ambling down the hallway his guards at his back. _His guard has since doubled._ Cersei mused, _Afraid of retribution for your cowardly act of murder? A Lannister always pays her debts._

Cersei settled herself in front of the fire in her solar. How she yearned for a cup of mulled wine to drive away the chill! However, as part of the conditions of her release from the sept, she was permitted only a single glass with her evening meal each day. The lack of wine made her head hurt, leaving her even more short-tempered than usual.

Shortly her door banged open and Tommen bounded in, cheeks flushed from his time in the training yard. She opened her arms and held him close to her. _Don’t worry my son, like a lioness with her cubs, I will kill all who threaten you._


	4. Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4, we're swinging over to Meereen! I understand the struggle of the Meereenese knot, and this is kind of a filler before the action, but I hope I did a decent job of capturing where Tyrion and the Second Sons stand in all this. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy, and thank you so much for all the comments and kudos you've left!!

Tyrion sat hunched over the ledgers, sweltering in the midday heat, despite sitting in the shade of Inkpots’ tent. The walls of the tent had been rolled up and tied open to allow the breeze from Slavers Bay to alleviate some of the heat.

Tyrion’s previous experience as Master of Coin in King’s Landing had proven invaluable, as the ledgers of the Second Sons were somehow even more convoluted than Littlefinger’s had been. Tyrion reached for the goblet of wine, grimacing as he sipped. _Tastes more like horse piss than wine, what I’d give for a glass of Arbour Gold._ He thought ruefully, scratching at the stump of his nose. Truth be told, he would have preferred water, his enforced detox had done him well he loathed to admit, but as the pale mare still spread through the ranks of the Yunkaii it was safer to drink wine.

He chased dragons through the ledgers, though more often than not they seemed to disappear. Most likely into the pocket of one unsavoury character or another. The scratching of Inkpots’ quill beside him as he scratched out contracts for the company’s newest arrow fodder only served to annoy him. The man was unpleasant at best, and just completely foul at worst. He had no sense of humour, and a sly, greedy disposition. _Though he is a sellsword, my own brother! If only he knew how much I love my family._ It seemed Inkpots had a new, special loathing for Tyrion, after he influenced Brown Ben’s change of heart.

Tyrion had spent the last few evenings playing cyvasse in Brown Ben’s tent, slyly winning game after game, and using this time to bring Ben around to his line of reasoning. He wondered if it was his musings of whether Daenerys would have him beheaded or eaten alive for his treachery, that swayed Ben’s loyalties. _Though scum as he is, he never had any loyalties to begin with._ In truth, Tyrion wondered if his own welcome from the Dragon Queen would be any less heated. Ben Plumm was taking a calculated gamble, that the Dragon Queen would value his aid to the city in its hour of need, and in turn forgive his betrayal.

The word in the ranks of the Yunkaii was of Daenerys death. Falling from the back of her dragon to be trampled by the frightened crowds around the fighting pits. Tyrion knew better, and so did Brown Ben it seemed. The Mother of Dragons would be soon to return, and he knew he would rather be part of the army that liberated her city from the treacherous Yunkaii, than the oathbreaking horde who murdered her hostages. The Targaryens were nothing if not vengeful.

Word from the Yunkish war council was that a final assault was planned at first light on the morrow. Spies had informed them that their puppet Hizdahr zo Loraq has been deposed by Targaryen loyalists. Their troops were growing weaker from disease, and Tyrion was certain if they waited much longer there would not be enough strength or leadership left amongst the Yunkish Lords to attack the city. The Second Sons were to take the left flank and defend against any possible assault from the hinterlands. The Windblown and the other sellsword companies would hold the riverbanks to prevent a flank. In truth, the sellsword companies had been given little true work to do. The Yunkaii desired the lions share of the glory and plunder. Had Ben Plumm intended on keeping faith with the Yunkish, Tyrion was sure he would have protested the company’s lack of involvement in the assault. It was folly to leave the most seasoned men out of the primary assault on the city, but truthfully, it was easier this way for him to turn his cloak.

It was vital that Plumm re-joined Daenerys. Tyrion was loath to admit that Daenerys may have dragons, but she was nowhere to be seen. Meereen needed all the allies it could get. Tyrion and Plumm had debated over the possibility of rescuing the Queen's hostages as a show of good faith, but ultimately decided the risk was too great. They could not show their hand before the battle commenced, there were spies in the Dragon Queens court, as such they had not sent an emissary to alert Ser Barristan of their intentions. The hoped instead that the knight would value their aid when in dire straits. Tyrion was relieved that he had been able to bring the self-styled Lord Plumm to his way of thinking.  _Much less messy if we do things my way._

However, Bens decision to turn his cloak a second time did not sit well with some of his officers. They believed, like the Yunkaii, that the Queen was dead and that there was no fortune for them in casting aside the lucrative contract with the Yunkish Lords. Tyrion could smell the winds changing, and he knew that the Second Sons needed to change with it. _This is likely my best chance to ingratiate myself with the Dragon Queen, that or she’ll decide that she needs some Lannister blood to wash out the Targaryen blood that my father spilled._

Tyrion stood to rub out the cramps in his legs. A result of sitting mulling over the ledgers for too long. Inkpots sneered at him as he stood.

“Finished already Yollo? I have other work that could use your devious little hands.”

Tyrion smiled his hideous smile, he knew it was a twisted thing, unsettling to look at. Sure enough, Inkpots shifted, discomfited.

“I find myself with a need to practice with my dirk. There’s to be a battle I hear, and last time I was in one of those someone tried to make me even prettier.” He gestured to his nose.

“Thought you would have made learned some sense by now dwarf. Do be certain not to leave the camp, I’d not forgive myself if something ill befell you.”

Tyrion shrugged noncommittally, receiving the distinct impression that Inkpots would have no problem sleeping at night if Tyrion was eaten by the same dragon rumoured to have devoured Daenerys herself. He turned and made towards the sound of clanging swords.

The training ground was located towards the centre of the campsite, and was a hive of activity, even in the heavy afternoon sun. He spotted Jorah Mormont, hulking in mismatched armour, swinging lustily at one of the Second Sons new recruits. As one of the only anointed knights in the company, the bear had unwittingly found himself in the position of training some of the greener recruits. He made a fearsome sight, the demon brand on his cheek visible under his visor-less halfhelm.

Tyrion hooted as the recruit dipped under Jorah’s guard, spinning around him and hitting the back of his legs with the flat of the blade. Jorah dropped to one knee with a grunt, swinging his sword in an attempt to catch the younger man off balance. Jorah was strong like the bear of his sigil, but slower, which became apparent as the younger man danced out of reach of his blade. However, Jorah’s skill and stamina won out, as the recruit became fatigued in the heat of the sun, Jorah charged into him like a bull and knocked him to the dirt.

Jorah pulled his helm off and reached down to help the youth to his feet from where he lay sprawled in the dirt. The youth was a young lad, no more than five-and-ten, with the olive skin and black hair of the Dornish, he spoke the Common Tongue with an accent that betrayed his roots in the Planky Town.

“You grow slow, old man. Soon I will have you.” He taunted Jorah, full of the over-confidence of youth, who then grunted in response.

“Not today.” Jorah lumbered towards a pail of murky water which stood on the corner of the training yard, dousing his arms and neck with the tepid water. Tyrion waddled towards him, painfully aware of his awkward gait.

“My swordsmanship is not the only one gone to rust it seems. At least I still have my razor-sharp wits.” Tyrion quipped. Jorah fixed him with a look of disdain. If Tyrion had expected any gratitude for saving Jorah from the slavers, he had been sorely disappointed. _At least he has lightened up somewhat at the prospect of being reunited with his silver-haired Queen. He hasn't hit me in a few days either, I think we're becoming friends._ He thought sarcastically. 

“I think I saw your Penny about here somewhere, a shame you could not practice your joust without the pig.”

“She’s not _my_ anything. As well you know.” Tyrion responded, his mood souring. “Though she could use the practice too, I’ll not have her as arrow fodder, poor girl has suffered enough.”

“Well you can drill with her, I hear you survived two battles already, maybe I should knight you.” Jorah trudged off in search of better company no doubt. Tyrion watched him go, his mood souring further. He had no desire to return to Inkpots or seek out Penny. The girl still spent her days pining for her dead pig and dog, missing the collar of her master. _That’s the most insidious thing about slavery in truth. How accustomed one can grow to the trappings of ownership. They don’t know how to function without it._ Tyrion mused. He had learned how to please his master as well as the rest of them, Tyrion was adept at nothing if not self-preservation, but he was a Lannister of the Rock not made to be a common slave.

Tyrion wandered about the camp, listening to the men-at-arms. Tyrion had hours still before he was due to sup with Brown Ben and the other officers. Being Lord of Casterly Rock had its perks, and dining with the officers was one of them. Their fare was much finer than the mysterious meats and stews that the men-at-arms dined upon.

He could hear the bawdy japes as the men played at dice, cyvasse was a game far too civilised for the common men. The merriment was typical of men on the eve of battle. There was a need to drink and make merry, as many would not be alive tomorrow to do so. Tyrion knew the feeling himself, thinking back to the eve of a different battle when he sought comforts of his own to while away the hours.

 _For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm._ Tyrion’s thoughts turned melancholy. _Where do whores go?_


End file.
